Promise of the Rose

by Brenda Joyce

  Brenda

  Joyce

  PROMISE

  OF THE

  ROSE

  For my mother, my best friend,

  a very great and special lady.

  I love you.

  Contents

  The Players

  Part One

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part Two

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part Three

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Part Four

  Chapter 24

  Part Five

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  About the Author

  Other Books By Brenda Joyce

  Author’s Note

  Praise

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  The Players

  The House of Northumberland:

  Rolfe de Warenne, the Earl of Northumberland

  Lady Ceidre, the Countess of Northumberland

  Isobel de Warenne, their daughter Neale Baldwin, Constable of Alnwick

  At Court:

  King William II (Rufus the Red)

  Prince Henry (Henry Beauclerc)

  Roger Beaufort, the Earl of Kent

  Adele Beaufort, Roger’s stepsister

  Other Players in England:

  Roger of Montgomery, Earl of Shrewsbury and Arundel

  Henry of Ferrars, Castellan of Tutbury

  Duncan, son of Malcolm Canmore and Ingeborg

  In Normandy:

  Roger Courthouse, the Duke of Normandy

  In Scotland—The House of Dunkeld:

  King Malcolm III (Canmore)

  Queen Margaret, his wife

  And in the Hebrides:

  Donald Bane. Malcolm Canmore’s brother

  Another Player:

  Doug Mackinnon, Laird of Kinross

  Part One

  The Rose

  Challenged

  Prologue

  Winchester. 1076

  Again, he could not sleep. He lay upon his pallet, his cheek pressed into the straw, listening to the snores of the knights around him—and the drunken laughter and conversation coming from the solar above.

  He had only been in the King’s household for three weeks, but it was not long enough for him to forget home and to cease yearning for the open moors of Northumberland or the cheery warmth of the great hall of Aelfgar.

  The little boy shivered, for it was the dead of winter and he was cold. He tried to snuggle more deeply into the straw and the thin wool blanket he had been given. He did not want to think about Aelfgar, for then he would think about his brothers, his parents. How sorely he missed them. If only he could forget his mother as he had last seen her. Lady Ceidre had been waving to him as he rode away amidst the King’s men, her smile brave yet forced, and he could see the tears that streaked her face as she wept without making a sound.

  Stephen gulped. Then, as now, the haunting image threatened to unman him.

  “Men do not cry,” his father had told him gravely when he had taken him aside earlier on the day that he left for Winchester. “ ’Tis a great honor to foster with the King, Stephen, a great honor, and I know you will do your duty as a man always does, and that you shall make me proud.”

  “I promise, my lord,” Stephen said, his heart swelling with determination.

  His father smiled and gripped his shoulder, but the smile did not reach his vivid blue eyes, which were inexplicably sad.

  But Stephen had not counted on the loneliness. He had not understood what separation from home and family truly meant. He had never dreamed he would yearn so terribly, so secretly, for home. Still, he had yet to give into unmanful tears, and he would not. One day he would return to claim his patrimony, a man full grown, a knight with spurs, and his father and his mother would be proud of him.

  “Wake up, brat.”

  Stephen stiffened. Duncan leaned over him, another boy fostering with the King, a few years older than he himself, and in far graver circumstances. For Duncan was not just fostering with King William, but he was a hostage as well. He was the son of Scotland’s King from his first marriage. In theory Scotland’s King Malcolm would cease his vigilant warfare against England now that King William had his son Duncan well in hand.

  Stephen felt sorry for Duncan, but the boy was so nasty that he could not like him. And Duncan, for some reason, seemed to hate him.

  Warily Stephen sat up, brushing straw from his cheek.

  “The prince wants ye,” Duncan said. “Ha’ ye been crying?” he sneered.

  Stephen stiffened. “I’m too old to cry,” he said stiffly, standing. He was six. “What does the prince want?”

  “I dinna ken,” Duncan said, but he was smirking, his tone belying his words.

  Unease pricked at Stephen, although there was no reason for it. He did not mind being summoned to the prince. Rufus had befriended him shortly after his arrival, and was his only friend amongst all the boys in the King’s household. Being the youngest and the newest boy, Stephen was either ignored by the other boys, or bullied and teased. Stephen had quickly learned when to fight back and when to retreat. Now, of course, he was perplexed. He had never been summoned by Rufus before, and especially not in the dead of the night. Stephen increased his stride to match Duncan’s as they slipped from the hall and outside.

  Stephen wondered where they were going but asked no questions. Before leaving home, he had been warned by his father to watch closely, listen well, and reveal little of what he thought or felt. He had been advised to trust no one but himself. So far, these past few weeks had underscored the value of his father’s advice.

  Upon the threshold of the stable, Stephen froze. Rufus was not alone; he was surrounded by a group of his friends, other young men close to the prince’s own age of sixteen years. They were all deeply in their cups. One of the boys was singing a raunchy song. A serving wench was amongst them, and two of the lads each had an arm around her. Her tunic was torn and gaping open, revealing taut nipples and lush breasts. For an instant Stephen stared, then he flushed beet red and looked away as one of the boys fondled her.

  The prince was staring at the six-year-old boy. For some unfathomable reason, Stephen’s initial unease soared. Rufus was flushed from drink and his eyes glittered wildly. He crooked a finger, calling softly. “Come here, sweet Stephen.”

  Stephen did not move. Not only were the prince’s eyes glittering and overly bright, he had his arm around a younger boy in a very intimate manner. Stephen did not recognize the younger boy, who wore the shabby clothes of a villein. Clearly he was not the son of a great lord sent to foster with the King. Stephen felt a flash of piercing sympathy for the lad as their gazes met.

  His father had warned him that there were men at court who liked young boys, and that he must be careful to remain aloof. Stephen had vaguely understood. He had seen lust in most of its forms even if he had not comprehended it. Now there was sudden, startling, frightening comprehension.

  But surely he must be mistaken! This was Rufus. The King’s son.

  The prince approached, having forgotten the young boy. “Good eve, Stephen,” he said, smiling. When he
smiled he was quite good-looking, despite his unruly flaming red hair. He threw his arm around Stephen’s small shoulders and pressed him close. “Share my wine. ’Tis uncommonly good, from Burgundy.”

  The prince was his friend, Stephen told himself as his heart began to race and pound. He had been kind to him since he had arrived at Winchester—the only boy to be kind. But Stephen did not like the hungry way the prince was gazing at him, nor did he like the look of expectation and amusement on the faces of all the prince’s friends. He did not like the look of relief on the young villein’s face. Not only did Stephen feel as if he was the butt of a vast joke, he felt as if it was a cruel one—a dangerous one. He felt trapped. He pulled away from the prince’s embrace.

  “No, thank you, my lord.”

  Rufus rubbed his back. “So formal this eve, lad? Come, sit with me, tell me why you appear afraid of me all of a sudden.”

  Stephen did not want to understand what was happening. But he did. He comprehended that the prince’s intentions were not simple friendship. He comprehended the prince’s unnatural lust.

  As he stood, torn, not wanting to believe the worst, not wanting to give up his single friend, yet knowing he was in danger, knowing he must move, and flee, an unfamiliar young voice rang out. “Leave him alone. Will. Let him be!”

  Stephen started as a youth he had never seen before shouldered forcefully through the boys. In size he did not appear any older than Stephen himself, but there was shrewdness and authority in his tone. Although his features were far more even, his hair far less bright, his resemblance to Rufus was unmistakable. This then was the King’s youngest son, Henry.

  “Who asked you to interfere?” Rufus said coldly.

  Henry’s smile was just as cold. “Are you stupid? Would you abuse the boy who would one day be Northumberland? Who would one day be your greatest ally?”

  Stephen began to shake as final, full comprehension sank in. His heart was pounding now in fright and anger. The prince’s interest in him tonight had nothing to do with friendship—had never had anything to do with friendship. The betrayal—and disappointment—was vast.

  “You will be sorry for this,” Rufus cried.

  Rufus suddenly lunged at his brother, perhaps to throttle him, his face red with rage. Henry ducked, and as one, Stephen and Henry began to run. They raced out of the stable and into the bailey.

  “This way!” Henry shouted, and Stephen followed the youngest prince back towards the donjon. A moment later they were safely in the great hall amongst the sleeping men.

  They fell onto Stephen’s pallet together, panting and out of breath. To Stephen’s horror, he felt tears well. The same tears he had been fighting ever since he had ridden into the King’s household. He had the horrible thought that he wanted to go home.

  But he would die before letting Henry see, so he turned his face away and regained control. When Stephen could speak, he said, “Thank you.”

  “Forget it,” Henry said easily, the straw rustling as he sat up. “Didn’t anyone tell you to be careful of my brother, who is far fonder of boys than girls?”

  “No.” Stephen stared at his hands. “He was kind. I thought he was my friend.” It hurt. He had no friends after all. Not here at court. He was far from home, and alone. Then he glanced sideways at Henry, who had come to his aid without being summoned. “Why did you help me?”

  Henry grinned. “Because I do not like my brother. Because one day you will be Northumberland—and we will be allies.”

  For the first time in his life, Stephen had an inkling of the power that would one day be his. “And if I were not Northumberland’s heir?”

  Henry looked at him, no longer smiling. Finally he said, “I would be a fool to prick at my brother if it did not serve me well.”

  Stephen could not help being disappointed. William Rufus had not been his friend, and neither was Henry. Henry had come to his aid, not in an offer of friendship, but for reasons politic.

  Henry crossed his arms over his knees. “You are such a baby. You will never survive to become Northumberland if you do not grow up.”

  Stephen was annoyed then. “You are no older than me.”

  “I am seven. And I have been raised at court, both here and in Normandy. I know of what I speak.” Then he smiled his winning smile. “An ally is far better than a friend.”

  Stephen’s temper cooled and he thought carefully about it. Henry was right. Tonight had proved that. “Then we are allies,” he decided, his tone so firm that Henry slanted him a glance. “And I will stay away from your brother.” His lips thinned. He began to feel rage. How dare the prince treat him as he had the villein, when one day he would be Northumberland.

  And one day the prince would be his King. Stephen sobered. One day Rufus would be his leige lord.

  “Usually Rufus is better behaved,” Henry commented, “but in your case, because you are only a hostage, he assumed no one would care if he did as he willed.”

  It took Stephen a full moment to comprehend what Henry had said. “I am no hostage.”

  “Oh, come! You mean, you do not know? No one told you? Your father did not tell you?”

  There was only disbelief. “I am no hostage. I foster with the King.”

  “You are a hostage, Stephen. Just as Duncan is a check upon his father’s power, so, too, you are a check upon your father’s power.”

  “But—my father and the King—they are friends!”

  Henry was grave. “Once they were friends, but I know well of what I speak. I have heard my father rage about Lord Rolfe de Warenne. He is afraid, for he has given him too much, and what he has not given. Lord Rolfe has taken. You are here to guarantee that Lord Rolfe continues to support the King against his enemies.”

  Suddenly Stephen felt even more alone than he had earlier. “He d-did not t-tell me,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

  Henry said nothing.

  Stephen could not move, could not breathe. His father had not told him the truth! He was no fostering youth but a hostage, and ’twas no great honor after all!

  Stephen opened his eyes and clenched his fists. Rage engulfed him. How he hated the King for forcing him from his home, for forcing his father to give him up! His father—whom he loved—who had lied to him as well! Anguish ripped him apart. Now he understood his mother’s tears. Now he understood it all.

  “I am sorry,” Henry said as if he meant it.

  Stephen looked at him warily, then forced his anger down, at the same time fixing a smile upon his lips.

  “ ’Tis better you know,” Henry said with a shrug. “What will you do?”

  “Nothing changes,” Stephen stated, his tone not that of a six-year-old boy, but of a man. “I do my duty.”

  But in that moment everything had changed, forever.

  Chapter 1

  Near Carlisle. 1093

  A lovers’ tryst. Mary could not help smiling to herself as she hurried away from the keep, careful not to be seen. It would be her very first such rendezvous, and excitement filled her.

  She was in disguise. She had shed her fine outer tunic with its long, jewel-encrusted sleeves for a peasant’s coarse woolen shin. Her gold girdle had been exchanged for a braided leather belt, her pointy silk shoes for wooden clogs. She had even been clever enough to borrow a pair of rough wool socks from the dairymaid, and an old linen veil covered her blond hair. Although her lover was her betrothed, a clandestine meeting was out of the question for any lady, much less herself, and she was determined not to get caught.

  Mary’s smile broadened. She was immersed in visions of her handsome laird sweeping her into his arms for her very first kiss. Her marriage had been arranged for political reasons, of course, so she knew very well how lucky she was to have fallen in love with Doug Mackinnon, a young man who had been her friend since childhood.

  The sound of voices slowed Mary. For an instant she thought that Doug must have company, but then she realized that the voices were not speaking in Gaelic or English.
With a gasp of fright she scrambled behind a big oak tree, crouching down in the grass. She peeped around it. For an instant she could not move, frozen with disbelief.

  Norman soldiers filled the small glade in front of her.

  Abruptly Mary haunched down even more, her heart slamming against her ribs. All thoughts of her tryst with Doug fled. Had she taken just one more step out of the woods and into the sunny glade she would have walked right into their camp!

  Mary was afraid to move. She had been teased by her father many times that she was far too clever for a girl, and now her mind was already spinning out its own conclusions. Why were Norman soldiers there, on Scottish soil? Did they know of the wedding of the Liddel heir that would take place on the morrow? Liddel was an important outpost for her father, Malcolm, holding Carlisle and this part of the border for Scotland against the marauding, treacherous Normans. A fragile peace had reigned in the past two years since Malcolm had sworn fealty again to their Norman king, Rufus the Red, at Abemathy. Had the Normans been so clever, then, knowing that Liddel would be so preoccupied with the wedding festivities that they could camp under its very nose and spy—or do worse? Outrage swept through Mary. They were up to no good; she must relay this information immediately to Malcolm.

  Her knees began to ache from squatting behind the tree. She raised herself slightly to take another peek at the Normans. They were making camp despite the fact that it was still several hours before dark. Scanning the group of men in front of her, she instantly saw why. Her eyes widened. One of the Normans was hurt. Two of the knights were helping a huge man dismount from his destrier, blood pouring down one of his powerful legs. Mary hated the sight of blood, but she did not look away. She could not. For she was looking at a man she had seen just once before, but had been unable to forget.

  Suddenly it was hard to breathe—her lungs felt crushed and her mouth had gone dry. If only she had been able to forget him. Two years ago at Abemathy he had stood behind his rotten King, William Rufus, towering over the King’s head of flaming red hair, his face a hard mask, while Rufus was openly smug. And beneath Rufus, on his knees in the dirt, had been her father, Malcolm, the King of Scotland, forced at the point of a sword to swear allegiance to the King of England.